I was thinking about A.S. Patric’s recent post on the Overland blog all of yesterday afternoon. I thought I’d have a go at responding to his piece, just off-the-cuff. Note: the words in bold are Alec’s.

Are we more disconnected?

I know how late my crush goes to bed.

Are we more superficial?

Skin is a surface.

Does the internet cripple the creative life?

There’s a book in that.

Are we more distracted?

I was thinking about the present, and then someone hyperlinked the past.

Debased and disillusioned?

Our placards have dimension.

Do we abandon a spiritual centre for a cyber stratosphere?

Did you ask for God on the telephone?

Or is it merely two centimetres of distraction?

I have been distracted by many paintings, less than a centimetre thick.

Are we ourselves filtered through the thoughts of others?

And through the thoughts of ourselves, given to others.

Are we distillations of the failures and successes of our parents, or perhaps, just our social networks?

He wanted his too too solid flesh to melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew because of his parents (and his social networks then helped him).

How much of myself is originated solely from the private recesses of the singularity that is my ego?

Just the affection.

How much of me is already historical, global, communal, whether I want it or not?

How much of me is Bart Simpson?

Where is all this going?

walt_disney_salvado_dali

 

  

  

 

 

 

Where is all this happening?

In the Matrix.

Is there some point of culmination where consciousness experiences itself as a collective phenomenon?

Why don’t you crowdsource the answer to that one?

Do we understand where we have been?

I was once a twinkle in my Dad’s eye.

Do we understand where we will be?

‘From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity’ – Edvard Munch

Have we seen all the tools we have made, and all the tools we will build, for the machines that are our past and future?

DOS.

Has an everlasting moment always slipped through our fingers?

I decided to look time in the face but it ran away from me.

Do we stand alone below the stars?

Each star is surrounded by space.

Have we always wondered how to see them properly?

It’s difficult to look into someone’s eyes if they’re focused on the sky.

Have we always wondered how to see you properly?

It’s hard for me to look into someone’s eyes.

Are there really nothing but questions?

42.

Nothing more than a code of 0s and 1s?

As above.

Combinations of such broken figures?

Broken things are more interesting.

Just so many broken fingers?

Fingers are older than numbers.

Do you think in such fractured circles –> wear such incomplete rings?

The beginning and the ending don’t meet.

Have we been little things?

Almost all of the time.

Have we been voiceless?

You’ll have to speak up, I’m wearing a towel. 

Have we been a sum on the other side of the sun?

Is music part of your equation?

Have we dreamed and found all our answers and then forgotten such sunless places?

Smell is a sunless thing.

Have I known you and lost you?

You knew only the avatar.

Have I misplaced our misread faces?

You’ll draw another one (to you).

Printed them wrong, forgotten and gone?

The paper from the printer is warm.

Will we now drift?

Continental drift is a natural occurence.

Each from each?

Like ‘Ratso’ Rizzo from Joe Buck.

Clusters of poetry turning into rings, barely detectable, and spinning around Jupiter?

I’d prefer to be a Martian poem.

Powdering out in white dust as far away as Pluto’s underworld?

It’s where all the cool kids are. Like James Dean.

What were we when we discovered that our planet offers us an absolute answer to everything we could ever ask?

We thought ourselves no longer ridiculous. Of course, we were wankers.

Answering

1 + 1

1 + 1

1 + 1

Answering

everything

else

with

zeros

I had a question about that

but I got distracted.

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